


Before Those Hands Pulled Me From The Earth

by spockandawe



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Death, Depression, Emotional Baggage, Emotions, Gen, Medical, Old Friends, Sharing a Body, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 14:33:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15584013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: Pharma's here. That sticks with you. He sticks with you, you suppose. That makes twice you thought he was dead, and twice you’ve been wrong. Pharma— Adaptus—Whoeverthis is said that Pharma’s brain had been gone, but you saw Pharma there, yousawhim trying to talk to you. And right there and now, you’ve got time to look at him, and think. He isn’t actively trying to kill anyone, and you think that hauling off and punching him in the face would do more harm than good at the moment. Though you’re still tempted. You're not busy arguing for your life. You’re not busy piecing together your friend’s corpse into a makeshift gun. All you can do is watch him and think.





	Before Those Hands Pulled Me From The Earth

**Author's Note:**

> It's left fairly vague in the text, but warning for a character experiencing strong suicidal ideation in this story.

There’s been so much  _ happening _ that you barely know what’s going on. Every time you think you’re starting to get your bearings, a new universe-shattering crisis shows up to knock you off your feet. 

Drift was shot, that’s at the forefront of your mind. And those guns were powerful. That shot didn’t catch him dead center, but you’re still worried about damage to his spark chamber, from single glimpse you caught of the wound. And you can’t  _ afford _ to worry about him right now, that’s what rankles. First Aid and Velocity were both in the group that was pulled out the window, and you’ll have to be satisfied with that. Megatron has them now, if you’re piecing together the scraps of information you get from Rodimus correctly.

You don’t even have time to corner Rodimus and demand some answers. Revelation after revelation, and you don’t even know if you  _ believe _ it. Adaptus in Pharma’s body?  _ Rung _ is Primus? A day ago, an  _ hour  _ ago, you would have laughed in the face of anyone who told you this would be happening. Now, you’re almost too numb to even process the information.

But— Pharma. That sticks with you. He sticks with you, you suppose. That makes twice you thought he was dead, and twice you’ve been wrong. Pharma— Adaptus—  _ Whoever _ this is said that Pharma’s brain had been gone, but you saw Pharma there, you  _ saw _ him trying to talk to you. And right there and now, you’ve got time to look at him, and think. He isn’t actively trying to kill anyone, and you think that hauling off and punching him in the face would do more harm than good at the moment. Though you’re still tempted. You're not busy arguing for your life. You’re not busy piecing together your friend’s corpse into a makeshift gun. All you can do is watch him and think.

By the time he finishes telling the room what the new Cybertronian mythology apparently is, everything is a mess. A quiet mess, but everyone is confused and nobody is happy. He gives some orders for the ship to head off and do… something. You don’t know what. There’s a fleet of Worldsweepers facing off against a mech that’s literally a planet, and who even knows what Megatron is up to.

But this is still space, and space is large. Maneuvering takes time and travel takes time. The confusion breaks down into quiet, huddled groups of mechs muttering together. They drift towards the edges and corners of the room, for the most part. Rodimus doesn’t look happy. And here you are, with no Drift, Ultra Magnus, or Megatron to talk him out of whatever his first inevitable impulse will be. Maybe you ought to be stepping up to be that voice of reason, but instead, you find yourself walking to Pharma. To Adaptus. Where he stands in front of the force shield covering the window.

“Ratchet,” he says, as you draw up beside him.

You just nod. You’re quiet for a moment, trying to figure out the tactful way to approach this. You doubt there’s any tactful way to do this at all. 

So finally, you settle on, “So Pharma’s in there somewhere.”

Adaptus is silent. Staring out the window still. But you think there’s a tension in him. When you steal a sideways glance at him, it’s hard to read his face, but you might think he’s conflicted. Sad. Angry?

Before you can decide, he turns to you with a slow, spreading smile that’s painfully familiar.  _ “Ratchet,  _ so good of you to drop by. If I’d had a little warning, I would have made an occasion of it.”

You fight the urge to hit him. The urge to  _ hurt _ him. “The last time we met, you did. I didn’t appreciate it.”

He laughs, and you try your hardest to focus on that single short look you had as Drift was shot, running in your head through the possible complications from a wound like that, sorting from most likely to least likely, most severe to least severe. It’s enough that you don’t think you’re going to lunge at him again.

“Come now,” he says. “Relax, for once in your life. How many times have woken up like  _ that?  _ How many times have you had the opportunity to give yourself a physical from the outside? Don’t tell me that wasn’t a novelty, I  _ was _ hoping to give you something of a unique experience.”

As calm and level as you can manage, you reply. “I was thinking about the part where you killed my friend. Your friend too, I would have thought. Though I suppose I’m forgetting the part where you’d already unleashed a plague on a whole Autobot facility, including all your patients and colleagues, just to get yourself out of trouble.”

He waves you off. “They’re all fine  _ now,  _ aren’t they? Or the ones who made it to treatment are fine. It was the plague or the DJD, so don’t bother trying to moralize at  _ me,  _ I was the one who spent the war stationed on that miserable planet.”

Pharma reaches for your arm, and you jerk backwards, away from him, before you even realize what you’re doing. He sighs, heavily. “I’m only taking a look at your hands.  _ My  _ hands, you might recall, that you just made off with, without so much as a please or thank you.”

He reaches out again, and your plating crawls, but you hold still as he lifts one of your hands, turning it over in his own, examining it. You hold yourself motionless, but you can’t stand this, having his optics on you, so casual and unconcerned and pretending like nothing is  _ wrong. _

“And you haven’t said a word about First Aid.”

Without even glancing up, he says,  _ “Fine,  _ fine, if that’s what will make you happy. Do tell me about First Aid, I’m just  _ dying _ to hear about him.”

“You mean after the part where you killed his best friend? Or after the part where he shot  _ you?”  _ Your voice is getting louder, and you run a slow vent cycle as you force yourself to calm down. Pharma tilts your hand, flexing your wrist so he can peer inside the joint. “For a few months, I thought we might lose him.”

Pharma makes a disinterested noise. “Not surprising. I could tell he didn’t have the temperament to handle being a real doctor.”

You almost hit him. You almost do. Your free hand balls into a fist and you can feel yourself tensing up, getting ready to swing. But you manage to stop yourself before you do it. This isn’t just about you. There are other people here with you, and you won’t just be getting yourself killed, you’ll be getting  _ all  _ of them killed. 

And Pharma looks down at your fist, still radiating unconcern. “Adaptus  _ is  _ in here with me, you know. He’s letting me have my fun, but if it looks like you’re going to do real damage to his body, he’ll shoulder me aside and take charge again. Go ahead, if you want, I can’t see how it matters to me.” A pause, where he waits, and where you… don’t hit him. “Then give me your other hand, I’m done with this one.”

You can’t quite manage to unclench your fist, and Pharma has to peel back your fingers, uncurling your hand for you. You’re almost shaking with anger, and you know he must be able to tell, but he ignores it completely. You try to walk yourself back from that edge, to something at least outwardly calm. 

You say, “How is this working, then? I know— I heard that First Aid shot you in the head. What happened, a damaged brain module? Severed?”

He makes a dismissive noise. “I wouldn’t know, Ratchet, I was  _ dead.”  _ You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off. “What a sloppy patch job, doctor. I think I’m offended.”

For a moment, you’re confused, but he runs two fingertips across your palm. And then you know what he means. It’s not obvious at first glance, and it would be hard to even feel it if you didn’t have hands as sensor-dense as a medic needs. But you can feel the tiny little catch as his fingers glide over the patch job, and he knows, and you know, and he knows you know. ‘Your friend is upset’.

“They’re not my hands,” you say. The silence is uncomfortable, and the words feel inadequate. “It’s a reminder.”

Pharma laughs, but there’s a bitter twist to his mouth. He notices you looking, and his expression shifts into a smile. “Getting sentimental in your old age? I wouldn’t have thought it of  _ you.” _

You’re not going to ask him what he means, and let him steer the conversation wherever he wants. “Your processor can’t have been completely destroyed. It would make sense if Adaptus had planned ahead, if he’d  _ planned  _ to find a body with a living spark and no brain module. But if he didn’t have the materials at hand, you should have been gone before he was ready to do the transfer. Rossum’s Rule of Thirds—”

_ “Yes,  _ yes,” says Pharma, impatiently. “We’re all doctors here. I can’t answer your questions. I was  _ dead. _ Honestly, Ratchet, if even death isn’t enough of an excuse for you, then I think I’ve been right all this time, and there isn’t actually any possible way to satisfy you.”

“I’m trying to figure out what happened.”

“Just think how much easier your life would have been if First Aid had only followed through and finished the job. Months of recovery, you said? All that trouble, for a murder he didn’t even properly commit.”

Slow vents. Calm. He’s trying to provoke you, you can tell that much, at least.

After a moment, you try again. “Where did the shot hit you?”

“My head, of course.” He taps your palm with his fingers. “You went to the trouble of leaving those words half-repaired, but you still repainted them. How long have I been telling you that you’d look much more striking with a little touch of blue in your frame?”

“You mean a paint job like yours. And what  _ part  _ of your head?”

He sighs loudly. “I’m so  _ terribly _ sorry my memories of my death aren’t detailed enough for you. It must be a great inconvenience. And really, just think. Blue hands, some little blue accents on your legs, a touch of color at the shoulders so it’s properly distributed— It would have much more visual interest.”

Your jaw is clenched so tight it aches. Pharma is still toying with your hand, flexing the joints and examining the plating. You try to keep your frustration out of your voice, but you don’t think you succeed. “I’m trying to figure out how to  _ save your life.  _ If your spark was the only thing left intact— Well, then clearly, spark memories are less pseudoscience than I’d thought. But if I don’t get some answers, then I won’t know if mnemosurgery will help, or if we’re working in entirely uncharted territory.”

And you pause, waiting for some kind of response. But Pharma only makes a vague, dismissive noise.

“I’m trying  _ very hard  _ to have a consultation with another medic, you—”

You cut yourself off before you can go any further. You turn off your optics, run slow vent cycles. You should have just punched him from the start. It would have been better. You would have felt better. It would have gone badly, but you would have still preferred it. When you let your optics boot up again, Pharma is still examining your hand, like nothing is wrong.

His silence is infuriating. Before you can stop yourself, you snap, “Don’t you care about  _ any _ of this?”

Then, he looks up at you. “You do realize that Adaptus is watching this whole conversation, don’t you? I only have control because nothing important is happening, and if I wear myself out  _ now,  _ I won’t be able to annoy him when he needs to have full command of himself. Don’t be mistaken, he could push me aside the moment he wanted to. He’s  _ terribly  _ amused by this whole conversation, you know, and he wouldn’t let it happen if he thought there was any chance you might succeed.”

You’re trying not to snap at him. But you don’t know how long your self-control will hold out. Pharma’s known you long enough to know how to push your buttons. You say, “He might think so, but it doesn’t follow that he’s right.” Pharma gives you a disbelieving, amused look, but you press on. “Come on, you were always a brilliant doctor.”

“Brilliant!” He laughs, but that bitterness is back on his face, and he isn’t bothering to hide it. “I would say that flattery will get you everywhere, but I think it arriving after I’ve actually died might be just a  _ little  _ late to do you any good.”

“It’s not flattery—” You’re not getting pulled into the argument he wants. “It’s not about flattery, it’s that if anyone can figure this out, you can.”

His fingers drum against your palm, and for a moment you think you might have him, but the look he gives you is flat and unamused. “Oh no, I wouldn’t  _ dream _ of overstepping my authority. Chief Medical Officer.”

You know he’s trying to provoke you. You know he is. You know how he  _ works,  _ and how he acts when he’s angry or upset, but— “Don’t start this.”

“Start what?” His face is all innocence and surprise. “I haven’t the faintest clue what you’re talking about. You know I defer to your authority in  _ all  _ matters.

“Pharma.”

“I am at your command,” he says. “And I am waiting for my reprimand for failing to record the details of my own death in all the detail you demand—”

_ “Pharma.” _

Your voice is too loud. You wonder if the other mechs in the room can hear you. You don’t turn around to see. Slow vent cycles. Cycle down your optics, cycle them on again. Force your jaw to relax. And try again.

“You were always more on top of the literature than I was.”

He shrugs. “It’s difficult to pass the time on Delphi. You know how it is, nothing to do but read medical papers and collude with the DJD.”

You ignore it. You won’t play that game. “You remember what happened with Blaster and Beachcomber? I don’t know all the specifics, but whatever Soundwave used didn’t work on the same principles as traditional mnemosurgery. There was significant processor damage, but therapy was helping, Beachcomber was in recovery, and the last news I heard from his doctors was very optimistic.”

You pause, waiting for a response. But Pharma doesn’t say anything. You look at him, and he just looks back at you, his face expressionless and empty. The silence draws out longer.

Finally, he sighs. “What are you expecting me to say? Are you hoping that I have the answer, I’m just not sharing it with you? Or are you waiting for me to suggest some wonderfully revolutionary treatment plan?”

“I—”

“It isn’t happening,” he says. There’s a moment of quiet, then he continues. “I’m finished. I died. I’m not dragging myself back out of the grave just to give  _ you  _ satisfaction. In fact, I’m just going to go ahead and say that I’m  _ also _ finished with this conversation.”

“Pharma, wait—”

But it’s too late. You can see his expression subtly shift into something unfamiliar, into— into Adaptus, you suppose. He looks at you, considering, and then his optics drop to where he still holds his hand in yours. You yank your hand away, taking a few steps back before you force yourself to stop.

Adaptus watches you, cold and dispassionate. He inclines his head, very slightly. “Ratchet.” You don’t answer, and he continues to study you. Your plating crawls, but you force yourself not to move or react. He doesn’t look away, but after a moment, his mouth curves into a faint smile, and he says, simply, “Interesting.”


End file.
